


A Merry Tune

by nemluvnost



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Cute, M/M, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 09:49:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12909423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nemluvnost/pseuds/nemluvnost
Summary: A very short little happy interlude following B&W. Written entirely for fun.





	A Merry Tune

**Author's Note:**

> Please have a listen to Back on the Path, it suits one particular scene with a certain witcher and a familiar vampire.

“He’s having a bit of writer’s block, “Priscilla explained. “That’s why he seems so out of sorts.”

Dandelion groaned, passing a hand over his face dramatically. Indeed, he looked the picture of despair-- his hair disheveled, doublet unbuttoned to the waist. The liveliness of the tavern-- cabaret, rather-- nor the pleasant company had improved his mood in the slightest.

“Thought you’d at least try to seem a little happier, considering who we brought with us,” Geralt growled through sips of vodka. Zoltan nodded in agreement.

“I’m sorry, Geralt! But what is a poet, if he cannot compose? Don’t take it personally, Regis-- I am very happy to see you, it’s just...well, you probably understand better than Geralt the emotional turmoil I’m experiencing,” the bard whined. The players outside had begun a jaunty tune, to the interest of Ciri, who turned to peer at them through the window.

“It is quite all right, Dandelion,” Regis assured him, taking his hand for a moment. “You must be in terrible confusion, but I am certain it cannot last. Much as in nature, the artist’s soul has it’s seasons; and, therefore, may lie in dormancy during the--”

“Oh, don’t coddle him,” Zoltan interrupted, “Here’s a rhyme to lighten ye spirits, Dandelion! Ahem,” The dwarf cleared his throat, then proceeded to clamber onto the table. His face was flushed considerably, indicating the amount of drink he’d consumed throughout the evening, as he stood upright in the center, a wide grin on his face:

“Dan-de-lion!  
He’s always a’ cryin’  
And sometimes a’ lyin’  
But ye shall find  
He sure ain’t a’ dyin’  
While the witcher tis tryin’  
Ever to save his behind!”

His voice rang out like a bell-- a gravelly bell-- drawing every patron’s eye, and then, their applause, with shouts of encouragement and whoops. It didn’t help that Geralt, Ciri, Regis, and even Priscilla joined in, laughing heartily. Zoltan danced a jig on the table, knocking the tin mugs to the floor, which resulted in more laughter and cheering. The bard was mortified. 

“Really, Zoltan!” Dandelion snapped amid the merriment, “You are not helping at all!” Despite his protestation, he smiled and winked. This only made the others laugh harder. Geralt had never seen Regis like this, bent over with a hand to his mouth, shaking uncontrollably with mirth. Must be the drink getting to him, he thought, nice to see him so relaxed. 

“Ah,” the vampire finally managed, wiping his eyes with the back of his gloved hand, “Zoltan, you are truly a poetical genius to be reckoned with.” Smiling, though restrainedly, Regis glanced at Geralt, his ink-black eyes sparkling. The witcher felt his cheeks growing warm, and reciprocated softly, nodding. 

Ciri observed this slyly, a grin forming on her own sweet countenance. One could tell she was highly amused. Neither of the men noticed, so long did they look at each other; she suddenly sprang up, all energy and elation.

“I want to dance,” she cried, and without further ado, seized Geralt’s arm and yanked him up. “C’mon, they’re playing some lovely music, it would be such a shame not to!”

“Wait, Ciri--” But the thought ended there, as he was forcibly dragged out of doors. Priscilla squeezed Dandelions shoulder. “Let’s! Oh, it’s been so long, and maybe it will stir up ideas for you!”

“As it is, I am very interested in seeing whether or not our dear witcher can actually dance,” Regis was on his feet, and the lot of them rushed to join the two witchers. 

A crowd had gathered outside of the Chameleon, and indeed, most folk were clapping or dancing along with the music. Ciri had whirled Geralt into the mazurka, graceful and swift, hardly allowing him a moment to regain himself. As the drum beat wildly, and the music picked up, she giggled at his stumbling and pressed him even harder, nearly sending him spinning out into the surrounding dancers. 

After a few moments, however, Geralt fell into step with her, giving as good as he got, laughing all the while, quite out of breath. Priscilla and Dandelion had joined in, while Regis and Zoltan stood aside, the dwarf keeping time with a stomping foot and Regis tapping his arm gently. Geralt spied them as they turned about, smiling again at his vampire friend. He could see Regis was having difficulty not showing his fangs to what seemed to be the whole of Novigrad, turned out for the festivities. The witcher lost himself in that dear expression, so rare and pleasant a sight, and was startled when the music stopped abruptly, along with Ciri. He wiped the sweat from his brow.

“Well,” he gasped out, between deep breaths, “never realised how old I felt till now!” Ciri playfully slapped his arm, and they made their way over to Regis. Zoltan had shifted off towards a mead barrel someone had rolled out, waiting his turn at the tap.

“Quite a show!” Regis applauded Ciri, and she curtsied deeply. “Cirilla, you are a joy to behold! Surely I have never seen such vivacity and beauty in one human being,” he said, fondly stroking her ashen hair. Pleased, her eyes darted to Geralt, whom she found to be grinning wide, staring unabashedly at Regis, eyes aglow in the torchlight. The band was about to strike up. She stepped aside. “I shall have a drink,” she declared, turning to join Zoltan, but still cautiously glancing back now and again. Another dance had begun, an organized one. Couples quickly began to form.

“Say, Regis,” Geralt spoke, “care for a dance? Still feeling it.” His hand trailed up the vampire’s narrow wrist and then down, taking his hand and leading him out with the other dancers. The music began again. “I like this song,” he added. “Not too fast.”

“I, too,” Regis murmured, low enough for only Geralt to hear, “enjoy it.” 

They turned, hands almost touching, dancing in perfect rhythm as the music slowly built, neither partner’s gaze straying, locked on to one another’s eyes. During each metered out phase, each time the witcher and vampire drew closer, following the proscribed steps, their smiles grew so much the more. It seemed they had left the little courtyard, and were dancing in a strange, hazy world, able only to see each other, and to feel the beat through their hearts. Regis danced with a type of perfection Geralt felt no other creature could hope to imitate, each movement graceful and measured; and Geralt, in the vampire’s eyes, was stunningly good, not at all reminiscent of his early whirl with Ciri. Though he had no need to breath, his breath nonetheless seemed caught as he felt the warmth emanating from the witcher’s palm. 

By the ending notes, the pair had had lost themselves so entirely, it came as a shock when the melody ceased. Geralt’s eyes blazed like coals, searing into Regis, so as to make him tremble slightly, his lips parting to reveal the tips of his fangs. 

Geralt gripped his arm harshly and tugged him into the narrow alleyway adjoining the cabaret. Regis, flushing deeply, hurried into the shadows with him.

Ciri smiled over her mug. “Well, well,” she whispered.


End file.
